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Airplanes & Air Biscuits

Last week, my husband shared a screen shot of a Twitter feed with me. The tweet claimed that farts are just the ghosts of the things we have eaten. Of course I laughed, because I am a perpetual fifth grader.

I dug around in the magical realm of the internet to see what I could find about that very subject. I was looking for something snarky. Something that was a real...gas.

The internet being what it is, I found of treasure trove of Etsy crafted goods, artwork, advice columns, and more regarding ghost farts. From curious questioners asking if ghosts fart, to TikTok videos of embarrassing moments, there was no shortage of barking spiders or air biscuits. Even Saturday Night Live slated a full skit to the subject titled "Most Haunted" from 2006. It's the funniest damn thing I have seen in a long time. I laughed so hard that my guffaws could be heard from both ends.

You can watch it here but be prepared to shit your pants:

The Urban Dictionary provides six different definitions for ghost farts. The one that struck a personal chord with me was this one: "When someone farts while seated, sealing the smell under them. Later, upon getting up, the ghost fart is released, stinking up the surrounding area."

The only way this could possibly be worse would be when you can't escape it.

I have been made insane by the methane and the memory is forever indelibly carved upon my psyche; replete with smell, taste, and texture.

A few years ago, my dearest friend and I were flying back from a fantastic weekend in New York. We boarded our economy flight to return home, still giddy from the sights and sounds of the greatest city in the world. I don't mind flying the cheaper airlines although the seats are tiny and you are crammed three to a row. It gets you where you need to go. New York to Cincinnati isn't too long of a flight under normal circumstances and yet, this flight may have been one of the longest of my life.

Lucky us! We got to sit together during the return trip and a very sweet lady in a vibrantly colored sweatshirt sat next to us in the aisle seat. She was quiet and we were thankful for the lack of chatter. The tin can of low-budget comfort took off, shivering its way into the sky as we pulled out our books to read for the next couple of hours. I felt relief as soon as we reached elevation, the flight smoothing out and sailing prettily through the sky but that relaxed feeling would not last long. You see, before our plane broke silently through the clouds, the sweet lady next to us silently broke wind.

Once we were free to roam cabin and use the restroom, she exited her seat and made a mad dash to the back of the plane. Unfortunately for us, she mistakenly left her entire digestive system behind. The exhumation of her dinner corpse wafted from the vinyl covered cushion that had cradled her butt during take off, storing the fetid stench just long enough for her to make her getaway. The rectal turbulence that emitted sour chemtrails in her wake was simply too much for me to bear without reaction.

My initial response was to violently gag. The odor permeated the tiny, enclosed atmosphere that was our temporary bubble. Not only was her panty burp the most noxious fume I had encountered in years, it also had a flavor and I am positive there was a shape to it as well. It was so awful that I immediately slammed my open book over my face to help mask the revolting power poot. My poor book did double duty as I immediately started laughing so hard that I wasn't making sound, my body racked with the hardest silent giggles I have experienced to date. I had to stop writing this piece because they came right back from the memory.

My dear friend, being much kinder, more concerned, and infinitely more mature than I, was worried for the poor woman's health and then turned her concerns to me. I couldn't respond because I was too busy rocking back and forth maniacally as I hysterically cracked up like an eleven year old on a sugar high after midnight. Tears of mirth streamed down my face as my hair and the paper pages of my book curled themselves from the spectacular colon bowlin' that was by now, taking over the entire plane.

The trumpeter of all things unholy never returned to her seat, not even for landing. I don't know where she went or how she was able to disappear from the tiniest sardine can in the sky. It's a mystery that bamboozles me to do this day. I suppose that she never truly left us though. Her scent lingers not only in my recollections but also on my book and jacket.

Anal salutes is a strange subject indeed. I am sure many out there would find this post to be tasteless. Probably so, but her fart sure wasn't!

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